“You’re taking to ’em as a duck takes to water,” declared Leon, encouragingly. “I rather guess you’ve found they’re good for what ails yer.”
“Oh, they give a fellow something to do to pass away the time,” said Don; “but I don’t care about them.”
“You will some time,” averred the other. “You’ll want them with you all the time. But, say, they ain’t having such a slick old time since you and I left the eleven.”
“What do you mean?” asked Don, quickly.
“Oh, they’re not getting along as well as they might. They’ve put Smith in your place and Linton in mine, with Boland as right tackle. Murphy couldn’t get along with Old Lightning near him.”
“Why, I thought Carter was going to take your place.”
“They found it wouldn’t work, for Old Lightning was too slow for end work. Carter is filling Smith’s place on the end, but Renwood kicks like a steer about Boland. Thad is getting sick of it, too, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he got out. Anyhow, all these changes have made the right wing of the line awfully weak.”
“If Boland gets out, they’re up a tree!” exclaimed Don, with a feeling of unjust triumph. “They haven’t a good substitute now, and it will break them all up to lose Thad.”
“That’s right!” cried Bentley, gleefully. “They will be in the soup! What will they do?”
“Give it up. What could they do now if a man should be hurt in a game?”